


per ardua ad astra

by Caivallon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:37:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew this boy would be the death of him.</p><p>He knew he would end up in hell for this. Or at least in prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	per ardua ad astra

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story in this fandom and also my first story in english.
> 
> It turned out much more twisted and darker than intended.  
> Please take note of the warnings. I’ve never read the book and only watched the tv series once, so this is more my version of Killian Jones and Peter Pan, based very loosely on both (tv series and book). It’s pure fiction I don’t own these wonderful characters. 
> 
> All my thanks go out to [ **Tetila** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AwakeMySoul) who first introduced me to this pairing. 
> 
> And of course thanks and chocolate cookies and flowers and kisses to my beta [ **Bee** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QWERTYbee/pseuds/QWERTYbee) (I hope you like how it turned out in the end? ^^)!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it... (comments and critics would be lovely ♥)
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://de.tinypic.com?ref=2qu0j75)  
> 

**per ardua ad astra**

 

**I**

He knew this boy would be the death of him.

He knew he would end up in hell for this. Or at least in prison. 

 

**II**

That was what he used to think. When he met him over one and a half years ago. When all he could see was ~~not~~ an innocent, but also certainly not this manipulative and furious (this strangely frail and innocent) boy, who had him wrapped around his long elegant fingers before he even noticed it.  
\- w i t h i n t h e b l i n k o f a n e y e -

And even though there’s no reason for him to feel guilty... ~~considering the fact that this boy came to him. Touched him. Kissed him. Begged him to fuck him.~~

He can’t help it. 

Because nobody would believe him.

(Sometimes he doesn’t even believe it himself.)

That this boy has been the reason for everything. 

 

**III**

But he knows every hour, every minute, every second was worth it. He doesn’t regret one moment.  
Won’t ever regret anything of what he did. 

For the rest of his life. 

 

**IV**

He met him on a cold November night.

Clad in black and blue, not bothering with a scarf or gloves. Ash-blond hair, white cheeks, red lips. The skin of his eyelids a soft bluish hue, appearing almost translucent. 

The voice clear and bright like a knife cutting through the clouds of his mind. 

The words alluring and beautiful like a poison dripping slowly into his veins. 

“Do you have a lighter?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“Are you even old enough to smoke?”

“Do you care?”

“Not really.”

There were many more; he doesn’t remember all of them. 

But he remembers the way he walked beside him – matching strides, quietly breathing, occasionally brushing against his thickly clothed arm. Remembers how he took the cigarette from him, how his features flickered in the sudden warm light, how his eyes glowed eerily. Remembers how the ice-cold hands felt when they grabbed his wrist (long and bony like a spider’s leg). Remembers how the dry chapped lips tickled when they fluttered over the corner of his mouth (frail and tender like a butterfly's wing). Remembers how the hot moist tongue tasted when he licked over his own (smoky and suffocating but underneath all sweet and tangy like fallen leaves).

“Do you always kiss strangers?”

“Do you mind?”

“Not really.”

“Besides… we talked. I told you about my family. You’re not a stranger.”

 

**V**

He is autumn forests and dry wood. The fire that consumed it. And the rain afterwards that extinguished the fire. 

 

**VI**

Killian loved his scent. His taste. 

The cold bony fingers. The elegant curve of his chin, of his hipbones, of his spine underneath his fingers. 

 

**VII**

~~Killian loved him.~~

 

**VIII**

Everything is dark outside by now. 

The golden light of the setting sun, which bathed the pale naked body beside his own in warmth, is long gone. Everything is dark inside, because he doesn’t dare to leave the bed (for it would destroy the unreality of this setting- the dreamlike and timeless atmosphere). Everything is the still naked sleeping body. 

Everything is warm and _now_. 

And Killian is a liar. 

// ~~Useless, little liar~~.//

It’s Sunday and Killian has lied to him since Friday evening when he came through the back door into his kitchen. ~~Has lied to him since that night in June almost 8 months ago. Has lied to him since that fatal night in November almost 16 months ago~~.

When he came in with a wave of coldness, with snowflakes on his coat, on his shoulders, in his hair.  
Cheeks red, lips chapped, eyelids tinted with blue from the lack of sleep. 

Shutting the door with emphasized force.  
Shutting out the winter, the weather, the world.  
Shutting out the past, the future.

He dropped his bag, his scarf, (Killian learned long ago that it doesn’t mean anything good, when he wears a scarf, or gloves, or a turtleneck), shrugged out of his parka. Stripped bare naked in front of him in the middle of the kitchen while Killian made him toasted sandwiches with butter, milk-powder and honey. 

The light above the stove, the clothes on the floor, arms wrapped around his chest, warmth pressed against his backside before lips crawl over his neck. Then the taste of honey and milk, of black coffee and cigarettes, of boy and man- all mingled together. 

Mouth sticky and sweet and _warm_. 

 

_Killian can’t understand how the boy is always so very warm, radiating heat, covering him in fire.  
Yet he’s got the coldest eyes he’s ever seen. _

 

The boy sat on the kitchen counter while he ate his sandwiches, still naked and totally unashamed, so Killian could watch him. The slender body, sharp bones. The graceful careless movements when he licked his fingers clean from crumbs of white crystals and drops of amber. Not even offering him the tiniest bit, not even bothering to put on his usual show, not even noticing the looks with which he was observed. 

“You’re beautiful.” (Killian, unable to hold back these thoughts)

“Don’t say that.” (anger clouds the face, lips twisted in contempt and disgust)

“But it’s true.” (he wanted to say it all over againandagain _and again_ until his voice became hoarse)

“I’m not beautiful. I’m good to fuck. So unless you don’t mean that…” (eyebrows relaxed, smile softer, a hint of sadness so faint he couldn’t be sure if it was really there) 

“Don’t say that.” (clasping his hand over the honey tainted lips)

He trailed kisses over the now-pale cheeks. Followed the familiar path downwards: over chin, over throat. Buried his nose in the hollow of the fragile collarbone, forgot his track on the smooth plains of the flat stomach, where tiny spots of sugary white powder covered the taste of wood and forest.  
Closing his eyes because he couldn’t stand the sight of the boy’s skin, he placed his head in the naked lap. 

(The faint tickle of soft hairs, the arousing scent of intimacy)

Until his breathing turned normal.  
Until his lungs were filled with wonderful oxygen.  
Until his heartbeat slowed down and the rage in his chest subsided. 

Hands clasped his hair, played with the short strands, scraped over his scalp. A sensation that, combined with the quiet chuckling laughter (Amusement? Pity?), sent shivers down his spine – a cold shudder like the snow still falling down outside. 

“Get up, I want you to fuck me.” 

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Ask nicely.”

“I need you to fuck me, ~~please~~.” 

And he did.

He fucked him. Right there on the countertop, in the dimness of the single lamp, next to the leftovers of the boy’s sandwiches and his mug half-filled with coffee. 

The bare legs of the boy wrapped tightly around his waist, the dark blond head thrown back against the tiles, teeth biting into the bottom lip so that no sound could escape him. 

There was something vulnerable in this sight, in their setting. 

One totally naked, presenting himself, giving himself to the other (to Killian). One fully dressed, hiding his body, burying himself in the other. Both of them hiding their emotions, clawing into each others skin, thrusting against each other in desperate hope to reveal what words couldn’t ( _can’t_ ) express. 

 

**IX**

It always has been like this. 

The boy sneaks into his house on Friday evenings. Sheds his clothes like he couldn’t stand anything his parents bought him. Killian makes sandwiches while the boy observes him or goes searching for something else to wear. 

They eat. They fuck. Sometimes they watch TV. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they fuck again. They sleep. 

The boy is always tired because he can’t sleep at home. 

They spend the whole weekend like this. 

Sometimes Killian has to work. Then the boy usually stays in his house, watching TV, surfing on the internet or doing his homework. One time he cooked dinner for Killian.

(Spaghetti with tomato sauce – it tasted horrible, too sweet, too much cream; he laughed so hard until his stomach hurt, until the boy climbed onto his lap, silenced him with his favourite taste and rubbed against him until they both came in their trousers.)

Two or three times the boy accompanied him, sitting beside him, restless and ever-touching to provoke him, passing snide remarks about his job or just silently watching, biting the already chapped lips. 

Sometimes the boy takes a bath, eating strawberry ice cream and making Killian read to him from one of his books about mythology. Sometimes the boy reads to him, tripping over the tricky Irish names while he’s lounging on the floor, bare feet stretched over Killian’s lap. 

They spend the whole weekend like this. 

They eat. They fuck. The boy sleeps. Killian lies awake ~~protecting him~~. 

It always has been like this. 

 

**X**

The boy turns in his sleep, rolling from his back onto his side – facing now towards him. 

And Killian is struck with emotions (hope, want, desperate desire to keep, to protect), unable to move like he wanted to a few seconds before. 

He always lies with his back to him. Hiding himself – hiding his so very vulnerable self like he’s afraid someone (Killian) could see what he’s so desperately protecting. 

‘ _Unfair_ ,’ Killian thinks, reaching out to touch but then stops. Fingers close enough that he can feel the warmth of the boy, the tender breath caressing his hand.

“I’m awake.”

Eyes open – an even darker darkness in the shadows of the boy’s features. 

“Touch me.”

He doesn’t know if it’s an order or a request but it doesn’t matter. 

Yet it sounds like a plea- ~~or at least Killian likes to thinks it’s a request~~.

The boy melts into his palm; warm and smooth like a cat. Hair whispers over Killian’s thigh, when he draws himself nearer. 

Feather-light, innocent kisses, the wet not-so-innocent tongue, painting pictures, writing promises on Killian’s much rougher, darker skin, sending shivers of arousal through his body. 

 

**XI**

“What did you tell your parents?”

“That I’m studying with a friend of mine over the weekend.” Shrugging, he fished the pack of cigarettes out of Killian’s backpocket. An almost natural gesture that made him feel cold where the boy’s thumb brushed ~~casually~~ the skin over his jeans. “Not like they really cared…”

“A friend? I’m a friend of yours?” He wanted to laugh, still remembering their first kiss, three weeks ago. 

(The soft lips, the harsh ~~almost brutal~~ force with which the boy’s tongue thrust into his mouth.)

“I told you about my family, my secrets… we’re going to fuck-”

“We’re going to fuck?!”

He took the pack of cigarettes from the boy, waited for him to pass on the lighter. 

Their fingers touched. Their eyes met. 

There was a strange glow in them; it reminded Killian of the observing, hunting glance of a snake. 

But then the boy blinked and it was gone. Replaced with the one he was used to by now; the defensive-aggressive stare of a wounded, cornered animal. 

He felt literally torn between emotions: overflowing, like he was about to burst. 

Amusement. (This situation felt so _unreal_.) 

Anger. (This obvious conviction that they would really fuck.)

And the dazzling wish to _protect_. (This seizable plea for help whenever the boy looked at him.)

“Yeah. We’re going to fuck.” Ebony cheeks hollowed as the boy took a drag of the cigarette – an angry red glow in the darkness of his backyard. 

“Are we?” Killian was ashamed of the abrupt interest that awoke in his lower stomach, the faint hot feeling of arousal. 

“What do you think I came for? And don’t tell me you haven’t fantasized about it as well.” 

He honestly didn’t know – but he never ever thought about that. He wouldn’t lie and say he never noticed that the boy was ~~beautiful~~ pretty. However that wasn’t the reason he agreed to let him stay over the weekend when the boy asked him the last time Killian found him in his usual place (perched upon a bench opposite the churchyard entrance).

“No,” he answered at last. “I never thought about that.”

Suddenly the boy’s face was close – very close. Watching him with an intensity that would’ve bothered him if it _really_ wasn’t the truth. 

For a few moments Killian was petrified.

The boy was indeed _beautiful_ – disturbingly so. ~~In a very sinful way~~.

Lips lush and elegantly curved (tasting like smoke and autumn and rain). 

Features sharply sculptured (like a knife cutting through his memories, destroying every single one).

Skin almost innocently white (moonlight trapped inside his open palms).

Then the boy pulled back, mouth twisted in something… like disappointment? Anger? Hate?  
(Killian couldn’t figure it out.)

“I believe you,”

He sounded surprised.

“But… why? Why did you offer to take me in if it wasn’t to fuck me?”

“I…”

Words like lashes cut him down. 

“Don’t! I don’t want to hear it.” A voice quick and blinding like lightning – painful like an actual strike with a whip. “You feel sorry for me?!” 

(Fast as a striking snake.)

“Fuck ‘ _sorry_ ’!” 

(Cruel like ice.)

He leaped up. “I don’t need your pity!”

Stomping the cigarette out with his heel, he turned towards the kitchen door; parka wrapped tightly around the slim body, like he was freezing. The look upon his marble face was pure hatred. 

~~Hot, blinding, arousing hate~~.

Yet he stopped when Killian called his name. 

“It wasn’t because I felt sorry for you… I did, yes, and I still do. But that wasn’t the main reason I took you in.”

He noticed the finger trembling upon the handle, teeth biting the bottom lip. ~~The very kissable, delicious bottom lip~~.

“I agreed to take you in because I like you.”

(His mouth was filled with the ugly taste of wrongness, of a lie that was once the truth.)

 _How could something so very wrong feel so very good?_

So wrong it made his stomach twist when the boy finally looked at him again. The soft smile was even more unreadable than ever before. 

 

**XII**

Maybe Killian realized it. Realized it in this fucking moment. 

He would do everything for this boy. 

Risk everything for this boy. Everything he was, or would be. 

His own life. 

His _sanity_. 

 

**XIII**

Willingly. 

 

**XIV**

And the boy probably knew as well. 

 

**XV**

“You seem tense, my dearest Killian.”

Marking his terrain with fingertips before gently – _ohsogently_ – placing his mouth upon the soft skin on the insides of his thighs. Biting, nipping, teasing him (Killian has to suppress a low growl of pleasure).  
Sucking, bruising carefully. 

“Why are you here?”

Arms reaching out to tug him down, to lie beside him, instead of leaning against the headboard. Streaming over his chest like April rain. 

“You mean, ‘ _why am I with you’_?”

Killian bites his tongue. Silences himself to hold back his agreement… his reaction because the boy’s attention is more than just a little arousing. 

But it’s the look upon his face – in his eyes – that makes Killian’s blood burn in his veins. A silky smoothness, ~~full of a devotion he’s never seen before~~.

(A soundless request that betrays the indifference in his voice.)

“I think I already told you, didn’t I?” 

The mouth creeps closer, sharp cheekbones sliding over his growing erection. (The voice is sleek with amusement.)

“Shall I tell you again? Do you need to hear it again, Killian?”

‘ _Yes_...’

He nods. 

~~Frantically. Feverishly~~. 

Unable to beg to form the words the boy wants him to say. 

Forbids himself to say them. 

But he longs _desperately_ … craves for the boy’s confession.

The reassurance of everything he’s seen in the pale green eyes. 

The reassurance that Killian’s _different_. 

“I’m with you because I like you.”

 

**XVI**

Killian doesn’t know if it’s a lie.

 

**XVII**

Killian doesn’t even _want_ to know. 

 

**XVIII**

He didn’t touch the boy on that first Friday night. 

They sat on the patio – in the darkness of his backyard. 

They smoked ~~and talked quietly~~.

(They asked questions and sometimes they got answers. They talked to each other and to themselves. Short monologues: And even shorter dialogues.) 

The boy told him about school, about his sixteenth birthday three months ago. More about his family. About his older brother who left ~~them~~ him two years ago, making him his father’s only favourite target. About his mother who only turned the volume of the television up while he beat the crap out of him, so their neighbours wouldn’t hear it. 

(They might not have heard it but he made sure they saw the wonderfully coloured bruises whenever he met them in the driveway.) 

Killian told him about his job. Told him about living alone, about his family. About his older brother who ~~left him~~ died when he was too young to understand it. About his father who kicked him out on the day of his mother’s funeral in front of everybody else. 

(He never returned to the wreck that once was his home. Shame and anger and guilt weighed heavy on his memory, on his heart. Unable to forget just one word his father yelled after him.) 

When they finally went inside, he searched the contents of his fridge, of his cupboards, finding nothing but toast bread, mustard and some old sausages. So they ordered pizza – 5 different ones so the boy could try a piece of each – and ice cream afterwards. 

He seemed surprisingly innocent with his excitement over the food. Sitting next to him on the couch, boxes in his lap, tomato sauce on his fingers, the taste of flour, cheese and pineapple on his lips when he kissed him. 

(Killian felt like a pervert, yet he couldn’t turn away, couldn’t look away, couldn’t harden his heart against him.)

So he savoured the incredible heat radiating from the boy’s body. The way he smelled of soap, of strawberry-cheesecake and snow – a strange mixture that Killian quickly associated with a strange dream of paradise. 

When he became tired, Killian stood up to prepare the boy a bed on his couch, pushing away every thought of the lean body beside him under _his_ sheets. 

(Curious wandering hands, smooth velvet skin. tickling hot mouth.)

“What are you doing?”

One perfect eyebrow raised in astonishment.

“Do you really think I’m going to sleep here?”

A laugh like water – honestly cheerful. 

No, he didn’t really think that. He just _hoped_ to escape the temptation for a few hours. 

// ~~Liar~~.//

Killian always was a liar and always will be.

(Sick memories arose- too fast, too ugly to turn them down, to erase them, to extinguish them.)

// ~~Nothing but a filthy little liar~~.//

Of course he couldn’t push the boy away when he climbed into his bed. When he pressed himself against his back, drawing constellations onto his skin, first with fingers, then with the nose and then with the tongue until he finally fell asleep. 

// ~~Filthy~~.//

// ~~Little~~.//

// ~~Liar~~.//

He didn’t touch the boy on that Saturday. Making him more aggressive and edgy with each passing hour. Eyes followed him every step he took, every move he made. 

That night they didn’t talk.

They just sat on the patio – smoking. Inhaling deeply, killing the memory of each other’s taste in their mouths. 

Futile. It didn’t work. 

They had crossed that border long ago (when the boy kissed him the first time).

So when he set up the couch that night, they both knew the boy wouldn’t sleep on it. That it was only to silence Killian’s conscience.

And when the boy climbed into his bed again he barely protested.  
And when the boy’s arms wrapped around his chest, he suppressed a small sigh of relief. 

 

**XIX**

He didn’t touch the boy on that Saturday night. 

 

**XX**

~~But he was glad the boy touched him~~.

 

**XXI**

Two weeks after their first weekend he waited for Killian in front of the mortuary. Standing in the snow – motionless like a hunter waiting for his prey. No scarf, no gloves; wearing sneakers as if it wasn’t one week before Christmas. 

Ash blond hair, cheeks marble-white, lips red. 

Shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there when he left on Monday morning for school. The exhausted look of someone who hadn’t slept for days.

(Killian’s heart leaped in his chest.)

Without greeting, without hesitation the boy grabbed him, kissed him. Licked into his mouth like it belonged to him. 

~~It did~~.

Together they walked the few meters to his house, the boy a silent warm breathing presence next to him.

As soon as they closed the door behind them he started to undress, dropping his clothes right where he stood. 

Revealing more and more of milky skin, ebony limbs, sharp angles; parts that covered his soul.  
Revealing more and more violet _bruises_. On collarbones, ribcage, neck (where he had hit him).  
A necklace of violent green-yellow fingerprints (where he had strangled him). Angry red scratches on the bumps of his backbone (where he had pushed him against the wall).

Killian was torn between emotions.

Anger – rage – because of the boy’s obvious mistreatment. The painful abuse of his body, of his young, twisted soul. 

Excitement – arousal – because of the boy’s nakedness, of his ~~beautiful~~ naked body right before him, waiting for him to _touch_. 

Longing for his touch. 

Everything in him yearned to… to embrace him, to hold him, to protect him. 

~~To have him, to caress him, to make love to him~~. 

But then the boy stepped forward, stood finally close enough so he could see the mixture of spite and desire in the pale eyes, could smell the already familiar scent of autumn leaves and fire and rain, could feel the warmth of the bare skin.

He couldn’t think straight. 

He couldn’t breathe.

Because the boy had pressed against him, into his arms. Rubbed himself against his groin. Kissed him feverishly with the same claim of ownership like before. 

Because all Killian could think about was plunging himself deep into the boy, overwriting every trace of someone else (of _him_ ) on the ~~beautiful~~ body, burying himself in the tight hotness. 

Because all Killian could do was pull down his trousers with fumbling haste, smooth his hands over the pale back downwards to cup the delicious bottom and lift the boy up (long legs wrapped themselves around his waist, bringing their groins excitingly close) while answering his kisses with the same intensity. 

The relief ~~they~~ he felt was mind-blowing.

 

**XXII**

The shame he felt was mind-blowing, too.

Disgusting.

Made him sick with self-hate.

 

**XXIII**

Sometimes it still does. 

 

**XXIV**

“You seem distracted… my dearest Killian.”

Fingers trail the path from his navel to his groin; leaving goosebumps like breadcrumbs behind them. Every inch of his skin where they touch is on fire.

And Killian is literally shivering. Even though the boy covers him like the most beautiful blanket in the world. 

“... and considering that I’m about to let you come in my mouth, you wouldn’t want that.”

No, he really wouldn’t want that. 

To miss this sight he would have to be blind: it is something that he could never forget. They would have to erase his memory, corrupt it, burn it out of his head. 

The sight of the boys perky tongue licking him like a lollipop, teasing his tip while looking up at him. Smiling when he closes his eyes like Killian’s taste is some kind of delicacy. The lush lips wrapped around his hard-on, sucking with thorough eagerness, taking him whole until he brushes the back of his throat. Teeth scraping the sensitive flesh just a little _too_ much. 

A small painful reminder that he’s completely at his mercy. 

_Killian hisses_. 

So aroused that he’s unable to concentrate on anything but the boy and what he’s doing to him.  
Quiet satisfied sounds, dripping into his ears. Soft locks of ash tickling his skin, the fluttering wings of a bird. The velvet paradise of heat that’s slowly killing him with pleasure bordering on real pain. 

Stars dance before his eyes, shivers run _icecold-hot-white-black_ through his veins.

It takes all his willpower and control to not come after a few seconds, wanting to extend this sensation as long as possible.

Drown in it. 

Savor it like it’s the last time. 

 

**XXV**

~~It is the last time~~.

 

**XXVI**

“How long has this been going on?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You don’t want to _tell_.”

They were in the preparation room, three doors from his office, where the boy had climbed through the open window half an hour ago. Now he sat on the counter opposite his operating table, tangling bare feet, bony ankles. The white shirt too big, too long, threadbare from years of wearing.

Killian’s shirt. 

He felt a pang of affection – arousal – at this perception.

“Nobody ever wanted to know. Nobody ever cared. Not even my mother. So why do you care?”

Killian couldn’t look up. Couldn’t face the scornful expression of the angelic features. Mouth twisted in mockery. 

So he concentrated on his work again. The accurate movements of his fingers helped him calm down. 

“I told you before: I like you. That’s why… and also because I think it’s a crime and he should be punished.”

The boy’s laughter sounded hollow and shrill in this high room, echoing from the tiled walls. 

Killian heard him open one of the drawers and pull something out – a pair of scissors.  
Small and elegant, but sharp and pointed, like a hairdresser’s. 

They gleamed in the cold neon-light. 

“Don’t worry, my dear Killian, he will be punished.”

Again the laughter – as _cold_ as the neon-light. Hard with hate. 

He continued working, ignoring the twist in his guts. 

“Why are you not leaving like your brother?”

“Because I’m not a coward like Felix.” 

“Do you hate him?”

The harsh clicking sound made him finally look up. 

Ash-blond hairs danced towards the floor. The scissors didn’t stop. 

Cutting. 

And cutting. 

~~And cutting~~. 

“Felix used to have long hair.” 

Although Killian wanted him to stop, wanted to move, to _make him_ stop, he _couldn’t_ move. 

So he watched the rain of hair falling down. 

“Do you think he’s going to stop touching you just because you cut your hair?”

“Do you think I’m a fool?”

They stared at each other. 

The boy perched on the countertop – Killian standing in the middle of the room. The bright-white light made the boy’s skin even paler than usual (even though it was summer it was still ~~beautifully~~ translucent and tender). 

_Ethereal_. 

“Why can you stand it when I’m touching you?”

The scissors were thrown away, landing with metallic bang in the sink beside him. 

Killian didn’t flinch. 

Didn’t flinch when the boy leaped from his higher place and brushed with his fingers through his hair (it was disturbingly short, rough and carelessly cut with nothing but hate and rage in his system).

Killian didn’t flinch. 

Then the boy stepped over leaning on the operating table opposite to him (bare soles of his feet probably sticky with hairs).

Killian didn’t flinch.

Eyes green- watching and waiting.

 _Killian flinched_. 

Sick with self-hate. 

// ~~Filthy. Liar~~.//

// ~~Destroying everything good in the world~~.//

Mad with hope. 

_He came to him! He kissed him! He touched him first..._

“You’re not like him.” 

Warm fingers brushed his own. 

“Your touch isn’t disgusting.”

Guided them towards the full chapped lips. 

“You’re just a lost boy like me.” 

 

**XXVII**

Later that night he cut the remaining strands to an equal length. 

Too short. Painfully short. 

(Killian loved the way they had tickled upon his skin before the boy had kissed him.)

He used the same pair of scissors although he deemed it sacrilege – they were the ones for trimming corpses' hair. 

The boy looked up at him as if he could read his thoughts. 

“When I die I want you to prepare my body.” 

Words like a knife into his heart, slicing him apart. _Achingly beautiful_. 

~~How he longed to hear them~~!

“I hope you’ll die long after me.”

He honestly did. 

“I hope I don’t.”

Turning the blade. Twisting it to intensify the pain.

Tentatively Killian reached out to brush with his fingers through the short hair. But it still felt soft, so he leaned down and breathed in deeply.

Sweat and summer heat. Leaves and smoke. 

“You still want to touch me?”

“I can not even _imagine_ not wanting to touch you.” (It slipped right out of his mouth.)

But this time it only earned him a small smile – not the typical amused and mocking laugh.

“I hope he hates it.”

 

They sat on his patio; the boy stared into the darkness and Killian stared at the boy. He seemed so much younger and older at the same time with this now short hair. 

Fiercer. 

The only light was the one above the kitchen counter, falling through the open door: dim and warm, illuminating the boys face. 

His features looked cut from stone – hard and shattering. His eyes colder – razorlike and burning. 

And yet more fragile. 

Eyes bigger, darker. Skin paler. 

He looked softer – open and vulnerable. 

Killian never wanted anything more than protect him.

(Lock him up inside his house so that nobody – _n o b o d y_ – could find him, could hurt him or use him.)

He looked breakable. 

~~Killian wanted him to break. For _him_~~. 

Tearing his gaze away he took a great sip from his whiskey and also stared into the darkness of his garden.

High trees, untended grass, an old-fashioned metal fence overgrown with ivy. Behind them uncounted little red lights, flickering and restless (guiding lights for lost souls).

“You really like this view, don’t you?”

“Yes.” 

For the first time the boy looked at him again. 

“It’s calming.”

“It’s a churchyard,” he smiled – relieved that his strange, frightening mood is almost gone.

“I understand you.”

Knees drawn close to his body (the worn-out spot on the left one where Killian could see his skin) the boy dipped strawberries into the jar of honey before eating them (lips redder than usual, glistening so sweetly Killian wanted to lick them clean). 

“I understand why you live here.”

“I live here because it’s not far from my work.”

“You’re surrounded with dead people all day… and yet you choose to live next to the churchyard. Don’t tell me that’s a coincidence.”

Of course it’s not.

“I like their peace.”

“Are your brother and your mother buried here?”

“Yes.” 

(His father went almost insane with rage as he had found out where Killian lived when he had come back into town after he had quit his studies.) 

“You never told me how your brother died.”

“It was an accident.”

// ~~Liar~~!//

// ~~Dirty useless liar~~.//

The boy nodded absently, dunking another piece of fruit first into milk-powder and afterwards into the honey. When the golden fluid trickled onto his fingers he reached over the small table for Killian to lick them clean. 

He loved the saccharine sweetness with the freshness of the strawberries and the tangy warm flavour of whiskey. 

Killian loved his taste.

 

**XXVIII**

Sated, full and satisfied after Killian spilled into his hot sucking mouth the boy curls at his side again. Tired but awake. 

“What does it mean?”

“The tattoo?”

He nods – fingers tracing the lines like he did hundred times before. 

“That’s latin, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Making an impatient sound the boy looks at him, threatening Killian with taking his caressing hand away.

“Tell me.” 

(An order)

And he gives in. 

“It reminds me of my brother and my mother. That life is nothing but a long hard way until we’re allowed to heaven.”

Warm lips cover the painted skin; he can feel the smile. 

(A reward)

“Constantly thinking about death, aren’t you, my dear Killian?”

 _Yes, because I’ll end up in hell._

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts from this vision he buries his nose in the boy’s hair. Follows an invisible path downwards, connecting moles and freckles; bruises, scratches and scars. His most favourite picture.

Elicits an almost purring noise.

Killian knows all of them. Has memorized all of them (even the ones that healed long ago). Always wants to be able to detect the new ones.

The ash-blond hair is almost as long as before. On the day they met the first time. One and a half year ago. 

Dozens of days and nights spent together.  
Thousands of hours spent touching.

Yet he knows almost nothing about this fierce and fragile boy. 

Killian knows about his past, about his present. Killian knows all the bruises his father left upon his skin. But he knows nothing about the scars he left upon his soul. 

He doesn’t even know what _he_ means to him. What he wants. What he needs.

What he feels. 

Nothing.

 _N o t h i n g_. 

It makes him feel empty. Hollow.

As if the boy has taken everything from him. 

All his thoughts.  
All his dreams.  
All his feelings apart from desperate love and mindless hate.

 ~~He hates it~~. 

~~He can’t change it~~.

He hasn’t been this happy since his brother’s death. 

 

**XXIX**

When he came back from work on the following Monday evening – earlier than usual because he couldn’t concentrate on anything, driven by restless thoughts and a nagging feeling of unease – he found him on the stairs leading towards his door. 

Bruised and shaking.  
Shirt ripped.  
Barely able to sit, holding himself on the bannister. 

Killian stopped breathing. ~~His heart shattered~~ when the boy refused his help and limped into his house. 

It took him painfully long to climb the stairs and he had to bite his split lip because of the obvious agony. Killian saw trails of blood on his back, in his hair, between his thighs. 

His body was as cold as ice. All his insides were heavy with sickness. He didn’t dare to touch the boy – not knowing if he was allowed to.

Never before had he felt this useless. 

Like so many times in the past the boy stripped in front of him. But it was without his usual careless grace, without the playful and teasing smile or the determined eagerness. His eyes fixed on Killian as he took off his clothes, the remains of his shirt, slipped the jeans off the slender hips.

(His underwear was also torn; Killian wanted to vomit.)

Nevertheless he held the boys gaze, frozen by the burning defiance, the white-hot rage and _hate_ he found in it. 

Slowly he reached for the washcloth and turned on the water tap. 

Looking at the boy he waited for a small nod, a silent gesture that he was permitted to help him before he started to clean his upper body from dried and sticky blood.

Relieved that underneath were mostly haematomas, already turning into a deep violet. The possessive imprint of brutal clutching hands on the waist. 

“That’s not your blood?”

“Broke his nose.” 

(The voice sounded proud)

The backside however was worse; covered in huge bruises, angry wounds where the tender skin broke from the sheer force of the strokes.

“What did he use?”

“A cooking spoon.” 

(Still strangely proud)

After wetting the cloth again with lukewarm water he knelt questioningly in front of the boy. Only then he dared to touch the insides of his thighs.

(Killian felt so sick with hate he had to grip the white porcelain of the sink.)

“Where has your mother been?”

“In the washkitchen, turning on the washing machine.” 

(A laugh cruel with contempt)

Even though Killian could see he really tried to control his reactions, the boy trembled slightly when he washed off the dried blood and semen. 

He wanted to apologize but he didn’t trust his own voice (and he knew the boy would despise him for such a weakness). 

So Killian only stood up to examine the wound on the side of the boys head (an easier task now that the hair was so short), relieved it wasn’t that deep.

But when he finally covered the scrapes and abrasions with ointment, he couldn’t hold back the words. He felt so empty, yet ~~burstingly~~ full with black emotions, with so much _hate_ it was difficult to breathe or think. Like he was balancing on the verge of an abyss. 

And the only thing that kept him from jumping was his slippery grip on sanity: the boy in front of him. 

“You should go to the police.” 

“No.”

“This is a crime. He belongs in prison.”

“I said ‘ _no_ ’.”

The voice was so calm and emotionless, it scared Killian more than anything.

“If it’s to protect your mother…”

“No.”

Stark naked he went into ~~their~~ the bedroom where he took one of Killian’s shirts and boxers. It caused him trouble to walk and pull them on.

Killian followed and watched him silently.

“Believe me, it’s not to protect my mother.”

When he looked at him again, a soft smile playing upon his lips, ~~almost~~ cheerful, Killian finally understood. 

 

**XXX**

It wasn’t to _protect_ his mother. 

It was to _punish_ her. 

 

**XXXI**

“You’re not going to leave me?”

“You mean ‘ _you’re not going to leave me like Felix did_ ’?”

The boy didn’t answer; just licked his fingers clean, balancing the plate with sandwiches on his flat stomach. Legs long and very pale against the dark cotton of Killian’s boxer shorts. 

Killian couldn’t stop looking at him.

 ~~Killian didn’t deserve to look at him~~. 

Even in the flickering blue light of the TV he was able to detect the bruises, the faint red of blood in the dark blond hair, the devilish smile that adorned the alluring mouth (sticky with sweet honey).

“No… I’m not going to leave you. I’m not a coward.”

// ~~Liar~~.//

A small nod while the boy turned around to switch the TV off; bony ankles, bare feet were placed onto his lap.

“You’re not going to do something foolish?” 

(It sounded like a question, but it was an order.)

“No.”

// ~~Nothing but a liar~~.//

A small hand grabbed his wrist. Warm and wonderful – wandering over the soft skin of his forearm while Killian waited for words that didn’t come (a request for a promise).

“ ~~Tell me something~~.”

Voice like velvet. Caressing. _Almost_ arousing. 

“What do you want to hear?”

“A little story… A fairy-tale.”

Killian couldn’t stop looking at him.

When the boy traced his fingers with his sweet lips, slowly licking, sucking them into his mouth; eyes green and intense with pleasure; waiting for a reaction.

“... something that makes me _come_.”

 

**XXXII**

“Are you still with me?”

Fingers trace his knuckles with so much care and lightness he barely notices it, pulling him out of his reverie. Killian hasn’t even realized he drifted away ~~to happier moments. There are no happier moments than this day. This hour. This minute~~. 

Every minute with him is paradise.  
Every minute with him is hell.

He looks up at him. Presenting him not the usual childish ~~and fake~~ pout but instead a sad and painfully _real_ looking smile. 

“I’m always with you.”

It’s an easy reply.

And yet a lie.

But Killian always was and always will be a liar. 

(The voice in his head laughs out loud and cruel. There’s no way to shut it up… he tried, he really tried.)

Again the small, sad, hurtful smile. Soft words whispered against the back of his hand – lips almost touching it, caressing it, kissing it. 

A butterfly’s wings and they taste of ashes. 

“ _Liar_.”

They hurt more than any knife. Because they’re the truth. 

Then the boy laughs and Killian dies.

A little. 

“If I’d ask one thing of you… would you do it?”

“Everything.”

(This is another truth that hurts more than he ever thought.)

His heartbeat accelerates. 

“Even if it would be something illegal? Something criminal?”

“Yes.”

His lips are dry and his thoughts rapid with hope. Internally wishing for the one sentence he longed to hear for almost one and a half year.

“Everything.”

Everything he wanted him to do, to say, to think, to feel. To give.

 ~~Every drop of his blood~~.

“Why?”

Still amused. Yet so openly and honestly confused, like he really couldn’t believe it (like he really couldn’t believe he’d deserve it). 

He’s never seen the boy so honest and _real_ before.

Every drop of his blood. He’d give him his heart.

(Would rip it right out of his chest, with his bare hands)

 

**XXXIII**

~~Killian has already given him his heart~~.

 

**XXXIV**

However the words he’s waiting for ~~longing for~~ don’t come.

The boy just smiles before he kisses his knuckles, tongue teasing the spaces between his fingers. Whispering quietly something Killian can’t understand but the tone of his voice is so tender he doesn’t even dare to ask. 

So he just brushes his hand through the boy’s hair. Waiting for eyes in the darkness to look at him again. So he just bites the insides of his cheeks and admires skin and lips and eyes and smiles. 

“Do you remember the day we met?”

Killian always would. 

_They would have to erase his memory, corrupt it, burn it out of his head_. 

“That wasn’t a coincidence. I always wanted to meet you.”

Fingers like a spider’s leg. Long and bony. 

“I always wondered about you… what you would be like.”

Lips and lashes like a butterfly’s wings. Frail and delicate.

“Why you chose the dead over the living.”

Words more beautiful and deadly like poison.

“... if the rumors were true.” 

Words that tore him apart.

But the boy just continues to touch him, to caress him, to pull himself closer. To him. To Killian.  
Looking up at him with the same ~~beautiful, trusting~~ content expression. While Killian’s heart stops in his chest. Breath turns to fire in his lungs. 

It hurts – and yet it doesn’t even matter.

Killian doesn’t care why the boy came to him.

He’s just glad he came.

“And what do you think?”

He savours the boy’s closeness, his body beside and above his own. ~~The way he’s searching for Killian~~.

“... now that you know me better than anybody else?”

For his skin, for his heartbeats, for the blood inside his veins.

“I think you could never ever hurt someone.”

Clawing spider-fingers. Trailing over his shoulder, over his collarbone, searching for something…

“I think you’re just a little lost boy.” 

Fluttering butterfly-kisses. Raining over his skin…

 ~~As if Killian could save him~~. 

 

**XXXV**

~~As if he knows that Killian’s about to leave~~.

 

**XXXVI**

So when the boy ~~finally~~ sleeps again, Killian sneaks out of his bed and dresses silently in the darkness. 

Not wanting to wake the boy.  
Not wanting to _see_ the boy.

He knows he’d never leave when he looks at him again. 

Creeping out of the bedroom and down the stairs. 

The cold hits him with biting force. A thousand tiny needles piercing his warm skin. Destroying every memory of the boy’s closeness. 

The street is empty. It started snowing half an hour ago, soft big flakes dancing towards the ground and covering it with an innocent glittering blanket – as white as his sheets in which the boy is still sleeping. 

Everything is silent. Nothing but the distant sound of the motorway. 

Killian pulls his coat higher. Hopes for the snowing to continue until he’s gone. He doesn’t think the boy would follow him, but knowing that he _could_ yet really doesn’t _want_ to… 

He prefers lying to himself. 

He always was a liar and always will be.

At the small wooden gate he stops for a final look. 

His the house is completely dark. Windows gaping at him like empty dead sockets. They need to be painted. Smoke from the chimney – barely visible in the falling whiteness – curls into the night sky. The gutter is loose on the left side of the porch, bouncing gently from the added weight of the snow.  
It’s wrecked down ~~like the house he left sixteen years ago, like the house in which his brother and his mother died~~. 

But he loved it.  
He was happy here. 

Now he’s leaving and never coming back. 

Taking nothing with him but a pair of scissors. Small and elegant, but sharp and pointed, like a hairdresser’s.

They gleamed in the cold streetlights.

He never looks back again. 

It’s over now. 

 

_

Thanks for reading


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